


the fury: ftb edition

by nymja



Series: the fury [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fade to Black, T-rated versions of smutty chapters from The Fury, but i took all the E for Explicit out, most chapters are probably going to allude to sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-05-14 23:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: non-explicit/T-rated versions of the smutty chapters in my fic "the fury"





	1. Chapter 10: appropriate

“Lord Baratheon of Storm’s End.”

He exhales, shaking his shoulders loose before he walks into the Great Hall. Gendry knows they’re gawking at him. He feels their stares on his body. They’re probably wondering what parts of him are Robert’s, what parts aren’t. He’s entertainment for them, bastards being little more than trained animals to high borns. And so when the whispers and the tittering and the scoffs start, it doesn’t take any imagination to figure out the cause of it--most of them were probably impressed he could keep his knuckles off the ground.

There’s only two consolations as Gendry walks into the welcome feast for the Lords attending the wedding. One, that Brienne is by his side as his sworn shield, and two, that he sees Arya sitting at the head table to the immediate right of Jon. He can’t look at the nobles without wanting to hit them, and he can’t look at the Queen in front of him, or he might do something he regrets at the end of his walk. So all his attention is on Arya. She looks nice. Her leathers have been replaced by a simple dress made of what appeared to be linen--it’s dark grey and there’s direwolves stitched in at the collar. Her hair’s been let down. She gives her little smile at him, the one she does when she thinks he’s feeling nervous or angry (he is). He wants to smile back, but he knows that’s not a good idea. Not when there’s so many people staring and wanting any excuse for him to go back to just being a bastard.

His booted feet reach the end of the hall. He’s got no choice but to look at them, now.

Jon sits to his Queen’s side, and he’s easier for Gendry to stomach. He’s dressed in a dark grey doublet made of leather, and without the armor or the fur he looks small. Jon, like Arya, gives him a wane smile. Gendry tries, and fails, to return the expression and does his best to ignore whatever Jon communicates with his after it.

He thinks of his village and his men, of Willis and Jocie and Brienne and Podrick and Davos, and it’s from there that he pulls enough self-control to meet the gaze of the Queen.

Daenerys is and is not the memory he has of her. She’s still unquestionably beautiful, her white hair done in a series of elaborate braids and her dress form-fitting in red and black. But he remembers her laughing with her eyes, her mouth in a small little smile. Softness in her expression when she looked at Jon.

That part’s gone, now. She still smiles, but it looks painful. Her eyes have slight, purple crescents under them. There’s palpable tension between her and Jon.

And on her brow is a crown.

It’s black, and he realizes after a beat that it’s made of dragonglass. He has no idea who forged it for her, as it’s an incredibly difficult material to work with. It forms a band to host three, silver dragons overtop it, braided together with their heads framing either side of Daenerys’ forehead. Their eyes have red chips in them--rubies, he thinks. It’s fine workmanship. Possibly the best he’s seen for this kind of thing. He used to make diadems and such for the noble ladies, part of Mott’s apprenticeship to get him comfortable with small pieces-

“Gendry,” she greets from her seat. Like they’re friends. Like she hasn’t just destroyed his former home and the people who lived in it. He doesn’t want her to call him Gendry instead of Baratheon. Because she doesn’t know him, will never know him. “Welcome back to King’s Landing.”

His hands are in fists and he can’t let them loose. And he must be doing a piss-poor job of concealing his anger, because Jon starts to frown. Dany’s brows furrow, and little creases in the corners of her mouth appear.

Gendry can’t die here. He refuses to let her kill him like she did so many other smallfolk. So he breathes out through his nose and bites out a “Your Grace.”

“Is something wrong?” She asks, and he has no  _idea_ why she sounds genuinely confused.

Gendry shakes his head, gaze going back to that bloody crown. “Was only caught up looking at the workmanship.”

Her brow smooths and she gives that pained smile, but Gendry sees the way her fingers press into the armrests. “Of course,” she recovers smoothly. “We are happy to host the new Lord of Storm’s End.”

It takes everything in him to nod, but he does. Gendry knows he’s supposed to say something more-- thanks for hospitality or congratulations on the upcoming marriage. But he can’t. He physically can’t get past the bile the words form, like they’re going to poison him if they come out.

“Congratulations your Grace,” Brienne says for him. “The Stormlands are honored to witness your upcoming wedding.”

“Thank you, Ser Brienne.” Daenerys looks at him, her tone only a little cooler. “Gendry. Please enjoy the feast.”

And then it’s done. As soon as he can, Gendry makes for the table holding his men. It’s far too close to the Queen.

\--

Music’s playing, the nobles are dancing, and food is served hot. His men are well into their cups, but Gendry can’t make himself drink. Instead he scowls, wondering how long he has to be here before he can leave.

It doesn’t help that he can’t get up and talk to Arya. She’s the only one he wants to be here with, but when he first tries, she and Jon are in an intense conversation, their heads bowed down toward one another secretly. When he goes to try again, a different man beats him to it. He’s blond. Daenerys says something to him, and he sits down. Next to Arya. Gendry glares.

“How much longer do I have to be here?” He demands.

Brienne frowns. “There is to be an announcement.”

“So why aren’t they announcing?”

“She wants people in their cups,” Podrick says under his breath. Gendry knows he must be feeling anger just like him, but Podrick is better at keeping it hidden.

“It’s not like she can burn this place down again,” Gendry mutters, and Brienne sends him a harsh look.

“That is not appropriate here, Gendry-”

“Fuck appropriate.”

Down the table, a few nobles start laughing, sending him quick looks.

 _"What_?” He snaps, turning in his seat. His blood gets hot, temper rising. There’s a coil in his chest, wrapping around tighter and tighter. Because it’s been two hours and he’s tired of them acting like he’s too stupid to know who they’re talking about.

The nobles, two women and one man in brocade and gold threads, watch him with wide eyes. Then they stand up to leave, and Gendry can hear the intentionally too loud whispers of “barbaric” “uncultured” and another word he doesn’t know the meaning of. Which makes him even madder, because he’s sure they used it to make a fucking point.

“Control yourself,” Brienne whispers to him. He hates that she sounds gentle. Like he’s a child she’s trying to soothe out of a tantrum. _He’s_ not the one wrong in this place.

He wants to talk to Arya. She’s the only one that knows.

But now she’s talking to the blond man. Arya’s even smiling _,_ the heel of her hand holding her chin as she tilts her head to the side and he could swear she’s flirting or something close to it . Gendry feels himself go slack-jawed because that’s not her  _._ It’s like she’s wearing a mask or playing a part. Because the second Daenerys turns away, the smile falls and Arya goes back to a carefully blank expression. The blond seems to notice, but Gendry watches as he pushes through his discomfort at the switch to keep talking.

Why is she being nice to him? Gendry frowns, something clearly going on that he doesn’t know about.

“Who’s that?” He asks.

Brienne follows his gaze, confusion evident in her tone. “I do not know.”

“He’s Dornish,” Podrick supplies. “Likely from a lower House. He entered with Quentyn Martell’s people.”

The blond offers Arya a hand, clearly asking her to dance, and Gendry snorts. No way in seven hells that’s happening. She starts to shake her head, but then Daenerys says something and Arya visibly swallows her words, puts on that mask again, and Gendry sees red when she gives a pained nod and accepts the Dornish man’s hand.

They begin a dance, but it’s clear that Arya doesn’t know the steps. Then he hears those tittering  _fucks_ start making comments at it. It’s one thing if it’s at him--he’s low born and a bastard--but he hears someone call her “feral” and he’s done. He’s just fucking done.

“Where are you going?” Brienne asks when he violently shoves out his chair.

He doesn’t answer. Instead he storms over to the not-dancing pair, and without a word he grabs her hand.

Arya spins, hand going to a dagger that isn’t there. Because she’s wearing a dress instead of her usual clothes. It’s just one more thing she’s doing for this place, another act, another mask. He has no idea how her partner reacts, because he doesn’t care enough about him to look.

“C’mon,” he demands, words dark as he starts to pull her toward a side door.

“Gendy,” She hisses, but there’s no protest beyond his name, so he doesn’t stop.

Gendry keeps going until they’re out of the Hall, whispers following after them. Then he walks some more, and more still. Until he stops being angry. Until it looks like no one’s around. Then he pulls them into a barely noticeable corridor--it doesn’t even have torches lit. He drops her hand and pivots to face her.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Me?” She steps back from him, crossing her arms. “What are  _you_ doing?”

“Getting you out of there!”

“Why?”

“Because you weren’t being yourself!” He flounders, hand running over his head. He starts to pace, the action somewhat undermined by the narrow corridor “I know you didn’t want to talk to some noble or smile or dance or anything like that. It...it’s not you.”

Arya goes very still. Gendry’s noticed that’s her new way to react to things she doesn’t want to hear.

“I’m doing what I have to,” she finally says.

He stills. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Daenerys needs to secure her allies,” she says, and her voice is all detached in that way he can’t stand. “At first I thought she wanted Sansa to marry Ned. He’s Lord of Starfall in Dorne.”

“Who?”

“The man I was with.”

“What’s that got to do with you?”

Arya’s mask breaks to give way to a frown. “Stupid,” is all she says, sounding tired and aggravated in equal measure.

“Go on, then. Explain it to the stupid low born.”

“It’s not  _Sansa_ she wants him to marry.”

“Then who?”

Arya stares at him. Gendry stares back. And then it hits.

“Well, don’t fucking do it!” He shouts.

“I’m not!”

“And don’t dance with him if you don’t want to!”

“Daenerys insisted. What should I have done instead?”

“I don’t know! Fucking stabbed him or something!”

“I’m not going to stab one of Daenerys’ allies in the middle of the Great Hall-”

“So it’s all about whether  _Daenerys_ is happy, that it?”

Arya’s expression darkens, genuine anger leaking into her words now. “You know what she can do.”

He, logically, knows it’s best to rein in his temper now. He doesn’t do it. “That’s why I know you shouldn’t do what she wants!”

“It’s not that easy. We need the nobles to-”

“Fuck the nobles!” He yells.

“I have to do this!” She yells back. “Just  _listen_ , you stubborn-!”

“ _Y_ _ou shouldn’t have to be changing for them_!”

His chest is heaving up and down in anger. She’s glaring at him like she wants to draw a knife. And he’s mad because he hates this fucking castle, hates what it does to the people in it. And Gendry loves Arya too much to watch her pretend. That was never Arya. She opens her mouth to say something, and-

“Fuck it,” he swears, quickly stepping forward and crashing his mouth to hers.

 

\--

They’re both breathing hard, trying to get their bearings. Arya, of course, gets her shit together far faster than him. She straightens out her dress. When it becomes clear that Gendry has been struck completely stupid, she sighs and fixes his pants for him. He tries to tie them, but her eyes are dark, her hair is a mess, and her face is flushed. He can’t stop looking at her.

About a half dozen emotions cross her face, and when she lightly kisses him, his whole body feels like it goes into shock. Arya stares at him, looking like she's trying to figure out something to say.

“I’ll go back first,” she settles on. He’s still trying to get his gods damned pants on, but she smooths her hair and is gone before he can even manage one knot.

Gendry just fucked Arya Stark in a hallway of the Red Keep.  
What the hell was that supposed to mean?


	2. chapter 13: forest lass

The clothes he’s putting on are the finest he’s ever seen, and every tie or fasten makes him more anxious for future wine or ale or whatever else he might spill on it later. The trousers are made of dark brown leather, and the fitted tunic he’s wearing is muted gold with rows of small studs running down it. Around his waist, he’s got a leather belt that has little, metal stag heads.

“Where’d we even get this?” He asks, pulling on a dark brown cape. The inside is lined with soft fabric he doesn’t know the name of. Silk, maybe? His clumsy fingers do up the clasps on the shoulders that look like antlers interlocking.

Brienne stands to his side. When she’d shown up in a dark leather doublet with a golden-yellow skirt, he’d been more moved then he’d care to admit. Doubly so when Pod arrived in similar, Baratheon colors.

“Davos and I procured them for you,” she says, sounding a little sad, and looking at him in a way that makes him think she’s seeing someone else. “They were your uncle’s.”

His hands go numb and cold. “Stannis?”

“No.” Brienne smiles. “Renly.”

Gendry knows that Brienne used to serve under his uncle, because Podrick told him. “...I don’t really know all that much about Renly.”

“There are times you remind me of him.”

“That good or bad?”

“Good,” she states with certainty. “He was twice the man of either brother. And the kindest.”

 _Kind_ isn’t how Gendry would describe himself, if she’s making matches. But he figures he’s at least better than Stannis and Robert. Never tried to kill his blood or put a bastard in someone’s belly, anyway. “You liked him, then?”

“Yes.”

Gendry nods, feeling a little better about his clothes. He readjusts the cloak until it feels right around his shoulders.

“Perhaps…” Brienne seems uncomfortable _._ “Perhaps I could tell you more about him, some time.”

“Sure,” he says, rolling his shoulders and preparing to enter the Great Hall for the wedding. “If neither of us get murdered in the next few days, that is.”

“Barring that, my Lord.”

He tilts his head. He thinks that’s a joke, but he can never be sure with her.

“Let us see to this wedding.” She gives a small nod before she walks out of his quarters.

They don’t really have a choice, do they? Still, Gendry follows after her, Podrick stepping in to the side of him.

“It was a jape,” Podrick confirms as the door to his quarters closes behind them.

\--

The Great Hall is completely dark but for the lanterns. They’re little bursts of orange in the black, resting on the floor to create the boundaries of a pathway. Gendry stares at them, confused and uncertain as to what to do next. Walk, he imagines.

“Never been to an Old wedding, have you boy?”

Gendry turns to the side, and is surprised to see a Stark man. He’s got  white hair growing in tufts above his ears and covering his chin.

“No,” he confesses, “I haven’t.”

The man squints, looking him up and down. Gendry suddenly feels self-conscious about wearing a cape. “You a Lord?”

“I guess so.”

“You go up front.”

“Where’s the front?”

The old man points at the Great Hall’s open doors. The lanterns lead out beyond them, then disappear to the left. It’s like a big, glowing arrow telling him where to go and he’s a complete idiot.

“...that way?”

“That way.”

“Got it.” He sighs. “Thanks.”

Brienne might be grinning as she follows him out. Podrick is  _definitely_ smirking.

“Aren’t you two my…” he doesn’t know what to call them, actually. “Learned folks?”

“Please follow the candles, my Lord.”

He does. He follows the bloody fucking candles.

\--

They lead them outside. The weather in King’s Landing never gets cold, and so Gendry has to imagine what this might look like in Winterfell. Pretty, he thinks, on the snow and all. He walks forward and knows that this is the Godswood--but it’s not like the one in the North. There, all the trees were white and the leaves red. Here, the trees...just look like trees. There’s one in the middle that’s bigger than the others, with vines dangling from its branches and a strange, solemn face carved into it. The lanterns end there, making a wide circle.

“That’s the heart tree,” Podrick explains.

“I know what a heart tree is.” Mostly. To make sure: “That’s where they actually...pray, yeah?”

“Yes.”

It’s all a lot simpler than he thought it’d be. A tree, some candles. It could be anyone’s wedding.

As they walk further into the wood, he takes in the spectators. Due to the size of the Godswood, the parties are all small--Lords, their families. As one of the Lord Paramounts without one, Brienne and Podrick stand in for that role. The first thing he sees is the light blue of the Arryns on someone who looks like Pod. Next to him are a handful of blond men and women dressed in red.

“Thought the Lannisters were done?” He asks Pod--he’s become something like an informant.

“A branch family. From Lannisport. The Queen has given Casterly Rock to them so long as they pay higher taxes for the next thirty years.The youngest daughter has been given to the Martells as a ward.”

“ _Thirty_ -?”

His attention is diverted when he sees the next House in the procession--a man with red hair and fish on his cloak. He looks as confused as Gendry feels.

“Lord Edmure Tully,” Podrick explains. A beat, then: “Arya’s uncle.”

The one in charge of the Riverlands. He’s accompanied by a demure woman who he guesses is his wife. She’s holding a squirming, red-headed toddler in her arms. Gendry spends a little longer studying Edmure Tully’s face--he doesn’t look anything like his niece. Arya, anyway. He might look a little like Sansa. When Edmure catches him staring, all he does is stare back with scrunched-up eyebrows and a slightly parted mouth. Like a fish, he supposes.

“He’s…” Podrick hesitates. “Not well known for...much.”

“Got it,” Gendry mutters. There aren’t any Tyrells left, but he sees their banners up. “What’s with the roses?”

“The Tyrells were allies of the Targaryens,” Podrick says after a moment. “The Queen honors them.”

Gendry’s not sure what to make of that. Beside them is the red sun and spear of Dorne. Prince Quentyn is lounging against one of the trees, inspecting his nails. After them is the golden kraken on a black field. A woman in a metal breastplate and leather duster stands in front of a few armored men who look nothing like her. Yara, he assumes. Like Gendry, she doesn’t have any family to stand with her. She notices him, and her brows raise up-- as if to say,  _Well_?

He dips his head in what he hopes is a nice enough nod. Those closest to where he guesses Daenerys will stand are a few of the Unsullied and Dothraki. He hadn’t had the time to get to know most of them, but they all look as serious as ever. Grey Worm’s not with them. Wonder why.

Finally, he finds where House Baratheon is meant to stand--across from the Greyjoys. And after the Starks.

Sansa is the first to catch his attention--she’s tall. Has bright red hair. Kind of like a living signal fire. Sansa is...stoic. Her dress is made out of light fabrics like the rest of them, in rich blues and light greys. Wolves are stitched up into the hems and there’s some kind of pattern that makes her arms seem like they have scales. She’s got the cinched neckline he remembers being on all their shirts in the North. Oh her head, she’s wearing something that looks like a modified diadem, which Gendry thinks is a truly terrible idea.

Behind her is the Hound, of all people. Standing where a sworn sword should go. He glances at Gendry once, sneers, and then doesn’t acknowledge he exists.

He pays the Hound and Sansa a collective half second of attention before his eyes are searching for Arya. He doesn’t see her-

Something taps his shoulder. He turns his head.  _Arya’s_ tapped his shoulder. As he looks at her, his mouth feels a little dry.

“Good,” he splurts out, then wants to kick himself. “You,” he clarifies. And that’s probably the worst start to a compliment he’s ever attempted.

One of her eyebrows quirks up in the way that gets him into trouble. “Me.”

“You’re in a dress again.”

“Yes.”

“That’s nice. Not that wearing pants is bad.” He winces. “I wear them all the time.” That was worse. That was a worse thing to say.

But Arya smiles. Not a smirk, just an actual smile. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” How does she make him so  _stupid_ still?

He doesn’t know that in her sleeveless, light grey dress with her hair down, Arya is the image of her aunt more than ever. He doesn’t know that the dazed expression on his face is the same one Robert used to wear around her. He doesn’t notice the sharp looks from the Lannisters, or the slight frown on one of Robin Arryn’s men. Doesn’t realize that Arya is standing closer to him than her sister. He’s only got eyes for Arya, and so all this just becomes background.

His attention only breaks when some whispers start. When Arya looks over his shoulder with a soft expression. Curious, he turns to follow it.

Jon walks the fire-lit path to the heart tree. He’s wearing a fitted, soft-looking tunic and pants that are, Gendry notices with some interest, the same shade as Arya’s dress. Around his shoulders is a white and grey cloak, fastened with the heads of direwolves. The same heads are patterned into the crown he’s wearing-- made of plain old iron, if Gendry had to guess.

Gendry’s not sure what he expected the future King of the Six Kingdoms to look like on his wedding day--maybe like he was going to the noose--but Jon just seems calm. He even gives Gendry a short nod as he passes him, and a smile for Arya. Then another nod to Sansa, who does not return it. Instead she gives him a cool stare. Someone else is not happy about the marriage, it seems.

Walking behind him, Gendry recognizes Sam Tarly. He’s wearing a dark grey robe of some kind. His smiles to them come easier.

Jon stops when he’s under the heart tree, turning to face the crowd. One of his hands holds the wrist of the other in front of him. Sam steps to the left.

Then it all gets quiet. The lanterns flicker, and he sees the Queen approaching.

Daenerys has her arm hooked through Grey Worm’s, the pair walking forward together. He’s as sour-faced and serious as ever, but he’s not in his armor for once. Instead it’s black trousers with a doublet that looks soft, the three-headed, silver pin still on the left side of his chest. Daenerys keeps her gaze straight ahead, right on Jon, and her attention doesn’t leave him. Doesn’t drift to anyone in the crowd. He looks at her with the same focus.

Her dress is white with a red lining underneath it, the scarlet peeking out in the insides of her long sleeves that trail over the ground, the equally long train of her dress, and around the hems. On her torso, the cloth is patterned like white dragon scales. But what’s most noticeable is the dark red, three-headed dragon that covers her side. It glints in the lantern light, and Gendry realizes it’s made of rubies stitched into the fabric.

Around her shoulders is a black and red cloak.

The gathered Lords, Unsullied, Dothraki, and Salt Queen are silent as she and Grey Worm make their way to the heart tree. As soon as she stops, there’s the unmistakable sound of leathery wings, the lanterns’ flames flickering from the air they move. Gendry doesn’t look up, but several of the other attendees do. It seems the last of Daenerys’ children is in attendance.

Sam clears his throat, turning to face Grey Worm. “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

Grey Worm answers tightly. “Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Mereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Queen of the Six Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.” Gendry has no idea how anyone remembers all that. “She comes to the Old Gods for other future husband and King.” Grey Worm looks from Sam to Jon, expression hard. “Who joins the marriage?”

“I am Jon Stark of Winterfell. I join the marriage.” He faces Daenerys for the first time. And while he does not smile, he doesn’t look angry or upset. “Who witnesses the marriage?”

“Samwell of House Tarly and the Night’s Watch.” Sam clears his throat. “Formerly, the Night’s Watch.”

“Torgo Nudho, Master of War.”

“Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, do you take this man?” Sam asks her, trying to smile.

“I do.”

“Jon Stark of Winterfell, do you take this woman?”

“I do.”

A moment passes. Then Jon extends his hand. Daenerys takes it, and the pair face the heart tree, kneeling before it. Gendry stares, confused. He notices that he’s not alone, several of the younger people in attendance do not understand, either.

“They’re praying,” Arya says quietly. “To the Old Gods, so they witness the marriage.”

Gendry swallows, nervous for some reason. “...Does it count, if one of them don’t believe in it?”

Arya considers the question, then nods. “I think it counts.” She sends him a wane grin, and Gendry realizes that she’s sad. He doesn’t have to guess why. “We’re not supposed to talk, now.”

“Right. Sorry.” Gendry watches, as Jon and Daenerys bow their heads in front of this strange tree, hands clasped between them. He pities Jon, who doesn’t seem to want pity. He wants to grab Arya’s hand, but knows better than to do it in front of every Lord in the six fucking kingdoms-

Her fingers slide between his, her arm brushes against his arm. And it’s ridiculous, but he thinks he understands it when people say hearts can skip a beat.

Jon and Daenerys rise. The next part he understands better, as Jon slowly undoes the clasps of Daenerys’ cloak. He carefully folds it as she watches with tears in her eyes and her fists clenched, slinging it over his arm. Then he undoes his own, and drapes it over her shoulders.

And like that, Westeros now has a King.

\--

People will eventually call this night the White Wedding. Gendry figures it’s because white’s the color for surrender.

\--

They start the feast before the King and Queen arrive. Above the hall, on the balcony, Gendry watches as a man hits a mallet against a large drum. Then another man joins in. A fiddler. Soon, music is in full swing and servants begin passing around cups. Unlike last time, Arya’s not seated at the head table. So he’s not even going to pretend to be interested in talking to anyone else. He sits next to her, Podrick on his other side and the Hound on hers. Across from them, Sansa and Brienne. It seems obvious, somehow, that Baratheon and Stark would be joining Houses for these festivities. Brienne still serves Sansa in a way, and Gendry hasn’t got anyone else. Not here.

The Hound mutters something to Arya, and she stands. Gendry looks at her in confusion.

“I’m going to talk to Jon,” she explains.

“Is something wrong?” Sansa asks with a shrewd gaze.

“No.” She sighs. “No, I just wanted to see him, before everything starts.”

“Better hurry,” the Hound says. He tilts his mug back, taking a long drink from the tankard. “He’s going to be elbow deep in nobles’ shit soon. If he’s not deep in the Queen, already.”

Arya scowls, leaving without another word. The Hound rolls his eyes, standing and making to leave as well.

“Where are you going?” Brienne asks with a disapproving look.

“To take a piss,” he answers with acid. “Want to come hold my hand for it?”

Brienne turns away with a disgusted expression, and the Hound snorts before he exits. Gendry has a suspicion he’s not coming back, and for once he envies the Hound.

Gendry’s content to just drink silently until Arya comes back, but her sister breaks the quiet.

“How are you liking court, Lord Baratheon?” Sansa asks him over the rim of a wine glass. It’s the first time they’ve really had a moment to talk since the Stark bannermen arrived.

“Hate it,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. He grabs a pitcher in the center of the table and pours more ale for himself. He knows the servants are supposed to do it, but fuck that.

“It’s not for everyone.” She takes a sip. “For good reason.”

He takes a large drink, wiping the excess with the back of his hand. Around the Hall, he feels the stares of nobles again, hears them sniggering. Gendry’s stopped giving a fuck. He hates court, and them by extension. Once he’s done with this stupid council, he has hope to never see any of them again. In a strange way, his disgust for this place has him thinking of Storm’s End as home for the first time. Gendry makes a note to send Davos a raven the next day. It’s a good idea to check in after a noble wedding.

“Guess I’m part of everyone.” He frowns at her. “How do  _you_ like court?”

Sansa smiles, polite and rehearsed. “As well as any other Lord.”

Gendry cocks his head. “You’re the Lord now?”

“Yes. Jon’s the King. Someone needs to hold the North for him.” Sansa takes another drink. “And his Queen.”

“The North could not have a better Warden,” Brienne says in earnest.

“Thank you,” Sansa replies. Gendry notices that her eyes travel across the room. He wonders who she’s looking for. Then he wants to swear when he finds out. “What do you think of Ned Dayne?” She asks the table.

“Not much,” Gendry mutters.

Podrick clears his throat. “We haven’t had the opportunity to meet him.”

Sansa stares at Gendry. He gets the feeling she’d be able to write down everything he’s said tonight. “I’ll have to introduce myself later, then.” She smiles at him, still polite. “Brienne tells me you’re doing well in Storm’s End?”

“Don’t mind it,” he takes another drink. He looks at Brienne. “It helps to have you there,” he says sincerely. “You too, Pod.”

Podrick smiles quietly. Brienne does the same.

“Thank you, my Lord.” He’s rarely seen Brienne get into cups, and tonight’s no exception. She passes her glass to him, and he takes it.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Sansa says. “When we’re not surrounded by eavesdroppers and gossips, we should talk more about the Stormlands.”

“Sure.”

Then the music stops.

Several of the guards stationed around the hall begin moving, hands on their swords. Gendry tenses, ready to get up if he needs to.

The men go toward the door, toward the heavy beam across it-  
-and they open it.

Sam steps through them.

“Your King and Queen!” He announces.

Gendry notices that he’s been gripping his fork tight, like he might a dagger. He’s not alone: Sansa’s face has gone pale, Brienne had moved to sit in front of her.

The guards raise their swords up too high to kill anyone, forming a bridge for the royal couple to walk under. Daenerys and Jon enter, arm in arm. Gendry wouldn’t say either look happy. But she doesn’t seem like she’s going to kill him. And he doesn’t seem like he wants to die. As they pass, people stand up to bow or curtsy-- some more gracefully than others after the drinks have been served.

Gendry takes his time standing up. His bow toward them is clumsy because he can’t help it, but shallow because he intends it.

Daenerys gives a nod to their table, acknowledging the Lord of the Stormlands and the Lady of the North. He can’t read her expression, but she moves forward without a look back. When they sit at the head table together, people cheer and Gendry sighs before pouring himself more ale, adrenaline leaving his body.

The music starts again.

\--

He’s stopped drinking by the time Arya returns to the feast. She sits next to him, her shoulders a little slumped. They’re by themselves, Podrick having multiple dance offers and Brienne escorting Sansa as she talks with other nobles. And so Gendry risks resting his hand on the top of her thigh under the table.

“You alright?” Because she was gone for a long time. Maybe an hour after Jon arrived in the Hall. He was about to get up and look for her, himself--hoping it wouldn’t be as disastrous as last time.

“...I might be,” she says, the statement resigned but also sounding true enough. “Jon should be happy.”

He senses something is not being said. “You think marrying the Queen is going to do that?”

“In a way.”

“What’s that mean?”

Arya shakes her head. “He wants to rebuild King’s Landing. She’ll let him.” Arya pours herself her first cup for the night. “Maybe that’s enough.” Something sad's in her next words. "Maybe he's tired of killing."

Gendry glances at the head table, where Daenerys and Jon sit. They’re talking to each other now, quiet murmurs no one will hear.

Arya’s next words have an edge to them. “Or maybe it’s not. But I’ve spoken to the Queen about what happens if she hurts him.”

Gendry stares at her sharply. “You thought to threaten the Queen?”

“I think to threaten anybody when it’s about Jon.”

The laugh escapes him. It’s a short bark of one--more from disbelief than happiness. “You’re going to get yourself killed, Arya.”

“No I’m not.” She takes another drink, eyes trailing to the head table. “Not by her.”

When another song starts up, the King and Queen join the other dancers. Jon’s movements are stiff and clearly rehearsed. Across the Hall, Gendry notices people looking at them again. One of them’s Ned Dayne--who he still hasn’t spoken to, and hopes he never will. Gendry watches the people right back, with their red cheeks and their ugly laughter and their leers at the serving women. he barely stops himself from getting up and decking the lot of them.

“Gendry?”

He realizes he’s been gripping her leg a little too tight. Embarrassed, he drops his hand into his own lap. “Yeah?”

“Want to get some air?” She asks softly as another song starts to end.

“Sure,” he says.

\--  
  
They end up walking the way of the lanterns, if for no other reason than it’s late and they’re the only lights outside. The dark doesn’t seem to bother Arya, but Gendry’s tripped over at least four different things by the time they’re out of the entrance to the Hall. The anger in him abates now that he’s not surrounded by noise and high borns. That Arya’s with him. They’re not alone, soldiers and servants are having their own celebrations outside the Keep, but no one gives them a second glance. The further they walk, the less people there are. By the time they get to the edge of the woods, they’re completely alone.

“It’s over,” he starts, because he feels the need to talk even if Arya doesn’t.

Arya closes her eyes. He watches, amazed, as she still manages to step over a fallen log he for certain would’ve tripped over. “For now.”

“And you’re okay?”

“Stop asking.”

“I will once I get an actual answer.”

Arya frowns at him. “No, I’m not. Jon’s going to be the Hand of the Queen. We know what happened to the last one. And the Hand before that.” She averts her eyes. “And the one before that.”

Gendry stares at the ground as they walk. He doesn’t have an answer for her, or a way to make any of this alright. It eats at him, because nobles shouldn’t have feasts like this when half the people in Flea Bottom don’t have good water. Arya shouldn’t have to worry about Jon during his wedding.

“It’s fucked,” is all he can say.

Arya nods.

They walk for a bit more, straying from the path of lanterns. Gendry has no fucking idea how he’s going to get out of the forest, so he’s hoping Arya can do it for them. By how easily she navigates the place, he assumes they’ll be alright.

“You never asked me where I was,” she says, breaking their silence.

“When?”

“After the Brotherhood.”

His jaw clenches at the memory. At being  _sold._ At being…  
Then it goes slack when he remembers those scars that wrapped around her body. Too many of them. Too deep.

“Do you want to tell me?” He hazards.

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Okay, then. Let’s try and see what happens.” Gendry suspects this should probably be done sitting down. So he does as soon as he finds a flat enough area, laying out his fancy stupid cape for them to sit on. “Where did you go after the Brotherhood?”

Arya follows to the ground, facing him. “Braavos.”

“How come?”

“To go to the House of Black and White. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. But I had the coin, and that’s where it took me.”

‘The coin’ nags at him. Gendry wracks his memory, and eventually he understands. “...that man at Harrenhal? With the hair?”

Arya nods.

Even the name of the place is enough to bring back visceral memories--the sound of small claws scratching against metal. The smell of mud and shit as they tried to sleep in it. Her lying next to him, curled up into a little ball, and him feeling responsible for all of them. And he remembers the man and his three names. Remembers giving her shit about the ones she picked.

“You became like him, then? One of those...?” He doesn’t know what they’re called, so he just waves a hand over his face.

“Almost.”

He doesn’t know what to say, other than he thinks he knows why she went there. Why she left to find the man who could kill three people just because a girl pretending to be a cupbearer asked him to. He’s heard her list. “Did it work? For what you wanted to do?”

Arya tucks her knees into her chest. “Almost.”

“Then...those scars?”

“From when I tried to leave. The Waif did it.”

“What's the Waif?”

“Dead.”

Once again, he’s out of words. So he sits there until he can think of something. It ends up just being the truth. “We’ve all done what we’ve had to do, I guess.”

Arya’s eyes flicker to him. They’re so light they almost seem to reflect in the dark. “What have you done?”

His mouth tastes bitter. “I needed to get better. At smithing, at making weapons.” Gendry’s angry at himself, maybe a little ashamed. “So I came back to Flea Bottom, trying to find Mott. In King’s Landing…” Gendry exhales. “It was the Lannisters who needed more weapons than anyone else.”

Arya’s anger used to be loud--sometimes it is. But it can also be cold and still, now. It’s the latter, at his words. A minute or so passes where he wonders if Arya’s just going to leave him in the woods to rot. He stares down at his fingers as they absently pick at grass.

“That was shitty of you,” she finally says, blunt and to the point as always.

“It was.”

“Is that why you came to Winterfell?”

“I think so. Davos found me.” He shakes his head. “And I needed to leave.”  _And now all of it’s gone anyways. Flea Bottom, the Lannisters. Mott. All of it._

“...I’m glad you did.”

Gendry looks up. “Yeah? Even with…?”

Her voice is quiet. “I’ve done shitty things, too.”

Gendry thinks about the daggers. How she said she knew death and he believed it. That she killed the fucking Night King. And he wants to ask, to know more about who that Arya was. How she fit into who Arya was now. But he doesn’t think he should, yet.

They sit in silence, the night just as quiet around them. After a while, Arya sits beside him, her cheek resting against him in the way she’s started to do. His arm goes around her waist, hand resting palm-up on top of her thigh. Through the trees, if he squints, he can still make out the organe flickers of light. They’re about as big as lightning bugs.

Neither of them move for so long that he’s about to doze off when he hears her quietly call his name.

“Gendry?”

“Hm?”

There’s a shift in weight against him, and he blinks himself fully away as Arya moves. She sits on her knees, and he turns to face her.

Without any words, her index and middle finger rest under his chin to tilt it up. Then she kisses him. His body unwinds, his arms coming around her to pull Arya into his lap. She straddles him, and Gendry’s palms rest against her back, fingers flexing. Her lips part, and the kiss stays just as slow as it deepens. It’s the first time they’ve been like this where he hasn’t felt hurried or desperate. Instead he just feels calm.

But he probably has to ruin it, now. Gendry reluctantly leans away, resting his forehead against hers. “It’s late. We should get back to Jon’s wedding.”

“I don’t want to be there.” When he doesn’t say anything, Arya’s fingers, light and quick as they always are, start on the fastens of his belt, then his vest.

He bites down on the inside of his cheek. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

Gendry doesn’t need any more convincing than that. He kisses her again as one of the hands he has on her back goes up to the tie of her dress. He pauses for a second, fingers toying with the knot behind her neck. “...then we should probably try somewhere with a door.”

“No thanks.”

\--

An hour or so after, they’re wrapped up in his cape. Neither are dressed, which Gendry imagines is going to be quite a shock if someone wants to pray tonight. Arya curls against him, her cheek resting on his chest and his arm around her back. His thumb rubs absently over her shoulder.

“If I get married,” she says quietly and Gendry goes very still. “I don’t want it to be for anything else than to get married.”

 _Careful_ , he thinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m not going to be Jon.” Her voice sounds thicker, but Gendry knows she would hate for him to comment on it. “I’m not marrying because someone says I have to. Or to hold something broken together.” Her next statement makes him wince. “Or because someone needs help.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he says. “Really, I am.”

“I know.”

“That’s why I’m not going to propose again.” Arya lifts her cheek to look up at him, so he presses forward quickly. “You’d have to ask me, next time. If you ever wanted to.”

“And if I don’t?”

Gendry shifts so he can look at her face. He moves the hand on her shoulder to the side of her neck, his thumb now tracing over her cheekbones, the line of her jaw.

“I think I’d like to wake up with you.”

Her eyes dart, trying to fully read his expression. He rests his forehead against hers.

“...in a featherbed?” She hesitantly asks.

Gendry presses a quick kiss to her lips. “Maybe just with a door. Sometimes.”

He thinks he feels her smile against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SUPER INCREDIBLY HONORED TO SAY THAT THERE IS NOW FANART FOR THIS!! The amazing [aritou](https://aritou-stuff.tumblr.com/) drew out the ["We're Pack" scene from chapter 7](https://aritou-stuff.tumblr.com/post/185465387292/im-in-love-with-a-fanfic-belongs-to-the-talented) and it is THE CUTEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN. 
> 
> **Clothes** because I'm Like That & terrible at describing them:
> 
> -Gendry's outfit is a mix of [this Stannis look](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/550213279474571532/), and this [Renly look](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/112941903142729772/). House Barathe _fab_
> 
> -Brienne's wearning the House Baratheon version of [this outfit](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/216806169547916572/).
> 
> -Jon's outfit is based on [Robb's Red Wedding< look](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/529454499920447409/)
> 
> -Sansa's dress is a mix of her [incredible coronation outfit that I will never be over](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/409546159864113838/), and one of [Catelyn Stark's dresses](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/447545281717936193/)
> 
> -Arya is wearing something close to [Lyanna's wedding dress](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/16536723618637501/) without the embellishments. oop
> 
> -Daenerys is in a red-and-white version of [this dress](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/143481938115656027/), but with long sleeves instead of a cape + a train. On her side is the Targaryen sigil detail that's been on [Rhaegar](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/738027457660652108/) and [Viserys'](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/431641945533836151/) tunics before.


	3. ch. 21: leaving home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, now that I'm getting into #Stormlands politics, some blanket disclaimers for the next like. 10 chapters lol:
> 
> -i'm gonna forget stuff or get information wrong. there's a lot of lore & politics in GOT/ASoIAF and it's been literal years since i've read the books. i'll do my best, but i'm also going to be going off wikipedia pages a lot. i plead creative license for most of the characterizations of Stormlands Lords & Ladies. im also going to be making an OC or two for Noble Houses
> 
> -this fic is kind of a fusion between GOT and ASoIAF (i'd say like 80% show, 20% books). so a lot of the things that happened in the books haven't happened in this story (for example, no Young Griff or Edric Storm plots), that'll affect the political landscape/characterizations/plot
> 
> -also, now's a good time to point out the "character death" tag. it's not going to be arya or gendry, but Stuff's Going to Go Down at some point and there'll be casualties along the way
> 
> \- ilu all! :D let's have some Road Trip

Gendry’s always been a heavy sleeper. Something that shouldn’t be possible, after living the life he’s had. But it’s true all the same--he might’ve slept through the Long Night if Arya hadn’t been there.

So it says something, that the morning after his wedding he wakes up before Arya. Wakes up  _because_ of Arya. At first he thinks he’s still drunk, because his head  _is_ spinning, and it’s all just. Weird. It’s fucking weird.

Arya is...growling. But not the kind of growling he likes. She lays on her side, arms and legs splayed out toward the wall and all her limbs are  _pawing_ into the air. Her top lip curls back from her teeth.

Over the last few weeks, Gendry thought a lot about what married life with Arya would be like. They’d wake up and have sex. Then probably more sex after that. And hopefully, again, they’d-

She wouldn’t pretend to be a dog in her sleep on their first day as a married couple, is what he means. 

Gendry slowly rises using his elbow, blinking against both the sleep-sand in his eyes and the blinding, rising sun coming in through the window that faces the causeway. Once he adjusts, his squinting eyes look down.

...yeah. His wife is definitely pretending to be a dog. What in seven hells.

Gendry jostles her shoulder carefully, not wanting to get bit or anything. 

“Oy.” He jostles her again. “Arry. Wake up.” And, to clarify: “Don’t...be a dog. Anymore.”

“Shut up, stupid.” She  _growls_ back, although now it’s the kind he likes. “And get rid of the sun.”

He yawns, rolling onto his back. His other arm’s underneath her and completely numb. “How the fuck am I supposed to get rid of the sun?”

“It doesn’t matter how.”

Gendry laughs, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

Arya somehow manages to shove her foot into his hip even though she’s facing the opposite direction.  

“You kick like a mule!” He says, laughing louder. This time, he’s able to shift to the side as her foot tries to get him again. Quickly, he wraps his hand around her ankle and tugs it at the same time he brings his numb arm up. The end result is Arya flopping over his torso rather gracelessly. She glares up at him with pure death.

Gendry smirks. “‘Morning mi-”

“I’ll make myself a widow.”

“-lady.” 

Arya rolls her eyes, but doesn’t move away. Instead, she shifts so their legs tangle up and her arms fold over his chest. She rests her chin on top of them. “What did you mean?”

He cranes his neck down so he can watch her, his big hand engulfing her bare shoulder while his fingers play with a piece of her hair. “‘Bout what?”

“Don’t be a dog?”

Gendry keeps his attention on the strands of brown hair winding around his middle finger. “You were being one in your sleep.” He grins. “Almost barking and everything.”

Arya’s eyes narrow. And he smiles because he likes this--waking up naked, her telling him to get rid of the sun. 

“...I was dreaming,” she admits.

“About?”

“Running.”

“Running from what?”

Arya shakes her head. “From nothing.” 

“Sounds boring.”

“It wasn’t.”

They’ve slept in, he realizes. The light’s golden as it comes in through the window, resting on Arya. She reminds him of a cat right now, content and soaking up the sun. The corner of his lips pull up.

“Morning,” he greets softly.

“Good morning,” she whispers. 

“You look nice.”

“I’m not wearing anything.”

“Yeah.”

Arya sends him a look somewhere between amused and resigned. Gendry’s fingers still when she presses a lazy kiss against the inside of his wrist. Her lips take their time leaving his skin, which starts to give him ideas. The hand that’s not in her hair smooths down her back, stopping on the curve of her ass. Arya doesn’t move, just keeps watching him. He pulls himself into a half-sit, bending down because he wants to kiss her. She moves to kneel between his legs and they meet in the middle. 

He’s feeling lazy about it, both his hands in her hair now. Gendry lightly sucks on her lower lip as he brings his knees up, boxing her in. He leans back every time she tries to deepen it, smirking a little when he can tell she’s annoyed.

“Do it right,” Arya scolds. 

“I don’t want to.”

She spends the rest of the morning convincing him otherwise.

\--

It's a good start to married life.

\--

Leaving Storm’s End happens a little bit at a time. The first to go are Jon and Bran. They see them off the morning they depart, Gendry eyeing Bran warily the entire time. Bran only stares back, and somehow that makes it worse. 

“I’m sorry you’re going to King’s Landing,” Gendry settles on, because he’s sorry anyone has to go to King’s Landing. 

“It’s no worse than anywhere else.”

“Yes it is.”

“Not for me.” Something over Gendry’s shoulder catches Bran’s attention, and his next words are quiet. “Keep friends close.”’

Gendry follows his gaze, not seeing anything but Pod and Rolland attempting to sort out some horse feed for the upcoming progress. He honestly has no idea if Bran is some kind of wise mystic or fucking with every single person he knows.

“I wish you well, Gendry Baratheon,” Bran says, drawing Gendry’s attention back. “It will be some time before we see each other again.”

“Never know,” he says. “Felwood’s close enough to King’s Landing.”

Bran looks down, and if Gendry didn’t know any better he’d say he seemed troubled. “Best get ready. You’ve a long journey.”

Gendry nods. He’s not sure what the rules are for whatever Bran is, but he figures extending his arm is a safe enough gesture. Bran stares at it for a moment, before he lifts his and they clasp forearms.

“Until next time, then,” Gendry says.

Bran nods, his arm falling back to his lap. “Next time,” he agrees.

Arya makes her way over to them, Jon not far behind. She wraps her arms around Bran’s shoulders.

“Take care of yourself,” she orders.

One of Bran’s hands come up to rest between her shoulders. “I’ve managed so far.”

Jon meets Gendry’s eyes. “I suppose it’s no use to say you’re welcome to visit the Red Keep.”

Gendry snorts.

A small grin makes its way to Jon’s face. “Probably for the best. But you are, should you want to.”

“How about,” Gendry counter-offers, “You come here when you want. Or need to get away. Kings ought to visit sisters, yeah?”

“And good brothers.”

Gendry’s eyes widen, caught off-guard. “That mean you’ve gotten used to the idea?”

Jon laughs. “It means it’s too late to do otherwise.”

Soon it’s time for goodbyes. Bran is escorted to the wheelhouse. Gendry and Jon clasp arms. Arya and Jon don’t say much to each other, but he kisses her forehead before he mounts his horse.

They stand out on the causeway together, watching the Starks go until they can’t anymore. Then Gendry asks Arya to teach him how to shoot a bow better, and she takes it for the distraction it is.

\--

They’re going to be gone awhile. And so a few nights before they’re set to leave, Gendry makes his way down to Willis and Jocie’s house. Jocie scolds him into eating some stew, and he sits around their hearth with them as they sup. The stew’s pretty good, even though he’s having it under duress.

They keep shooting him strange looks, and finally he just scowls. “What?”

Willis smiles, an awkward and quiet thing. But Willis in general is pretty quiet and awkward. “Jocie’s with child.”

She nods, looking rather pleased with herself. “About two moons now.”

Gendry slaps Willis on the back. It’s probably a little too heavy, since he pitches forward at the motion. He doesn't really know what to say, so he just grins. 

Their conversation turns to other things--places in Storm’s End that need patching up, some of the ships Willis has started working on repairing. How the goat’s doing. Willis gets up to grab Jocie things before she even asks for them, she rests a hand on her lap more often than not, and a strange feeling comes over Gendry at all of it.

\--

“I’m not making you hardtack,” Hot Pie states, literally turning his nose up. “It’s beneath me.” 

“Already got some,” Arya says, grabbing one of the stag-heads he’s got on a tray and tossing it into her mouth. Those things are getting pretty popular around Storm’s End, but they still don’t look like stags. More like little folded arms.

“From who?!”

“Horace,” she says, referring to one of the castle’s cooks.

“Horace's a mummer,” Hot Pie says. Hotly. “Saw him cut lard with water, once.  _With my own eyes._ ”

“As opposed to someone else’s eyes, then?” Gendry rolls his, fingers that are grubby from the forge reaching out for the tray as well. Hot Pie swats them.

“Don’t go mucking up my work.” Hot Pie frowns. “Some of us care about the craft.”

Arya grabs a handful and dumps them in front of Gendry. Hot Pie looks at her with betrayal, but she only shrugs. Gendry bites down on one with an audible crunch, brows raised and a smug smirk. 

“Can’t believe you got Horace to make you things and didn’t even ask me,” Hot Pie grumbles.

Gendry’s next words come out around a mouthful of food. “You just said you wouldn’t-”

“ _Still_ would’ve liked to been  _asked_.” Hot Pie scrunches his face up. “You sure you’re even able to go on a process?”

“Progress. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ll probably get lost.”

“No I won’t.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m bloody sure!” 

“Don’t think that’s true.” Hot Pie leans on the counter he’s working behind from, head bent toward Arya’s like they’re conspirators. “You think that’s true?”

“No.” Arya reaches for another stag-head. Hot Pie doesn’t swat  _her_ hand, Gendry notices with irritation. “But it’s not up to him. Pod and Davos planned the course.”

“That’s good.” Hot Pie looks at her, then Gendry, and his head lowers a bit, reminding Gendry of kicked dogs. “Too bad I can’t go with you.”

Gendry shrugs. “Could, if you wanted.”

Hot Pie sighs, looking out the window. Gendry doesn’t know why--only thing that window faces is the forge, which is usually too full of steam and smoke to see anything in. “Can’t be on an adventure forever.” 

Gendry’s face screws up into a frown, not sure why the statement bothers him. But it does.

“Anyways,” Hot Pie says, reaching underneath the counter. “I got you these instead.”

He lifts and suddenly there’s two, huge burlap sacks in front of them both. “You’d better not give any away. I’m already in high demand,” he warns.

They’re filled with stag-heads. Arya smiles at them, and Gendry smiles at Arya. 

“We’ll miss you Hot Pie,” she says quietly.

Hot Pie puffs up his chest. “Course you will. I’m the only one that actually feeds you.” His expression goes solemn as he turns to Gendry. “Don’t worry,” he says very seriously. “I’ll be a good Lord for you while you’re gone.”

Gendry chokes on his bread.

\--

The morning they leave is chaos. They’re taking fifty soldiers this time, a modest show of strength, and all of them are preparing their horses and saying goodbye to their loved ones. Roy makes a particularly aggressive show of the latter when he bends Anne down into a dip in the middle of the square, their children running around and screaming their bloody heads off as they play. Ronard, too, as he picks up his fully grown sons into a bear hug, their booted feet lifting off the ground and protests audible. 

As Gendry observes the partings, it hits him how glad he is that Arya’s coming. He doesn’t think he’d be able to leave her for the months they’ll be away. Gendry watches as she talks to the Hound, the pair working to load a cart with foodstuffs for the journey. Admittedly, he looks a little more intently when she bends over to pick up a sack of Horace’s mediocre hardtack. 

“You ready, lad?” 

Gendry turns away reluctantly. Davos leads his horse over to his, hands in the reins. There’s been a quiet air of excitement around him lately, and Gendry knows he’s eager to see his family again. They’ll be stopping in the Seaworth holdings in a few weeks. Podrick walks next to Davos, notably without horse or travel pack. He’d be staying behind to manage the guards of Storm’s End in Brienne and Sandor’s stead. 

“Not my first time travelling,” Gendry says without commitment. Truth be told, he hasn’t cared to think about the long journey much. Other than Bran’s strange comments. Which he doesn’t  _want_ to think about.

“First time as a Lord, milord,” Davos corrects pointedly. 

Gendry’s expression goes sour. More behaving, like he had to do at King’s Landing, is the last thing he wants to do. 

“You remember our lessons?” Pod interjects.

“I’m not a moron.” 

“Of course not.” And then Pod asks too innocently: “House Penrose’s words?”

Gendry works his jaw. “...shut up.”

“Set Down Our Deeds.”

“What does that even mean, anyway?” He grumbles. 

“Two white quills on a russet field,” Pod continues.

Gendry glares. Pod smiles.

“I’ll miss you,” he says.

Gendry sighs. “Same. I guess.”

“My Lord,” Podrick states as a goodbye, smile leaving his face slowly.

“Pod.”

He gives a small nod, before heading over to say goodbye to Brienne. 

“He’s either going to rise to the occasion,” Davos observes as Podrick walks away. “Or they’ll mutiny five minutes after we’re over the horizon.”

Gendry sends him a side glance. Davos sends him one back. Then Davos chuckles as Gendry snorts.

“Stag on mutiny.”

“Aye, I’ll take that wager.”

\--

An hour later, and Gendry is mounting his horse. It’s a rusty-colored one that he hasn’t named yet. He’s bad at naming things. Arya rides into step with him, sitting on the same white horse.

“What’d you name that?” He asks, gesturing to it with his chin. 

“My horse?”

“Yeah.”

Arya is suddenly preoccupied with adjusting her gloves. “Argella.”

It's a good name. He’ll have to call his Rusty Horse, he thinks.

They start riding along the causeway that leads from the castle to the main road they’ll be travelling, and Gendry can’t help but notice Arya’s eyes scanning the treeline of the forest that surrounds Storm’s End.

“What is it?” 

Arya frowns. “Feels like I’m forgetting something.” 

Gendry looks at the trees, but for him there’s nothing special about them. “Do we need to go back?”

She’s quiet for a moment. 

“No,” Arya settles on. “It’ll come back to me.”

He watches as Arya shakes off whatever it is that’s troubling her, and she sends him an amused look. “Looking forward to months of nobles?”

“‘Bout as much as my head being cracked open.”

He gets a smile out of her at that. Once again, he’s glad for them being together in this.

\--

It hits him as soon as his horse steps off the causeway: he doesn’t want to go.

It’s a strange feeling, leaving home.

\--

Their first stop is less than a day and a half’s ride, but a couple hours in and it starts to piss-pour rain. Thankfully, that’s not an unusual occurrence in the Stormlands, and everyone’s brought boiled leathers to protect themselves and their gear. Still, it slows them down.

Which might be a good thing, based on Brienne’s mood. 

At first, Gendry thought it was just stress from having to wrangle 50 Stormlanders into a procession. Then, he thought it might’ve been about leaving Pod behind. But when she hasn’t stopped scowling, he figures he should probably talk to her. Or something. 

“What’s up your ass?” 

The look Brienne sends him is pure ice. “I’d thank you not to take that tone with me, my Lord.”

“Alright. What’s wrong with you?” He guesses from her expression that one’s not much better, but he doesn’t know how to be more delicate than he already is.

Brienne must recognize this, because she's less hostile when she speaks next. “I am...acquainted, with the Conningtons.”

Gendry nods. “They swore fealty first,” he recalls, House Connington one of the few to immediately accept his claim to Storm’s End.

“They did,” she acknowledges, but her jaw’s still tight and he thinks she still looks like she wants to hit someone.

“So what else?”

“I worry about our reception,” she admits after a moment. “Lord Jon Connington was one of Prince Rhaegar’s largest supporters. He likely accepted your claim because the Queen legitimized you. But he’s yet to return from Essos, and so we have to contend with Ser Ronnet.”

He vaguely recalls Ronnet from the feast he hosted months ago. Bright red hair and an annoying laugh, but that’s all he’s got. “You don’t like him?”

Her jaw clenches tighter. “No.”

“Why not?”

Brienne keeps her attention trained straight ahead. “...I apologize. I won’t let any of my personal misgivings interfere-”

“If you don’t like him, I probably won’t,” he cuts her off. Ronnet did, after all, bend the knee to the Lannisters at one point in the war.

Brienne considers this, his point clearly made. “At the beginning of the War of Five Kings,” she begins carefully. “I met Ser Ronnet in a melee at Bitterbridge.”

“How’d that go?”

“The moment I slammed my shield into his face was one of the greatest in my life.”

He’s not sure what to do with this information, other than find it funny. “Well,” he starts just as carefully. “You can do it again, if you want.”

Her grip relaxes. “Thank you, my Lord.”

\--

Griffin’s Roost isn’t the easiest castle to get to. It rests atop a crag, the road to it narrow and winding. The higher they go, the worse the wind. Gendry’s attention keeps sliding down to the rough waters of Shipbreaker Bay beneath them, feeling his stomach flop with it.

“I told you not to look down,” Arya reminds him as she re-joins Gendry in the middle of the procession. She hands him a skin of water.

He grabs it. “Where else am I supposed to look? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a fucking mountain.”

“It’s a cliff.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Cliff’s smaller.”

Gendry drinks the water she gave him, but he’s not happy about it. The closer they get to the gates, the higher his irritation goes. Who builds a castle in the middle of a mountain? Above a bay? 

It seems he’s not alone. The Hound is in a foul temper from his place further up in the line, as is Brienne. The only one who seems unphased is Arya, her face that calm mask he doesn’t like. 

Gendry’s first impression of Griffin’s Roost, once he gets passed the stupid mountain, is that it looks weathered. It’s built of white stone, with a few towers. Once they're close enough, he sees the windows are all patterned in red-and-white glass. 

“Here goes nothing,” he mutters, as the gates to the castle come into view. They’re already lowered, their procession no doubt visible from far away. A little further, and they're entering the courtyard, the guards posted eyeing them warily.

Sandor stops his horse first, riding further into the courtyard. Brienne follows him, and with her back to him, Gendry can’t gauge her mood. The soldiers in the front part for him, and soon it’s just Gendry and Arya trotting forward to meet the greeting party.

It’s hard not to notice Ronnet. He’s a big man, with a full red beard that could envy Tormund’s, although it’s better groomed. His arms are crossed over a barrel chest. While Gendry’s approaches, Ronnet’s eyes scan him from head to toe, assessing. Then he does the same thing to Arya, which sets off a flare of irritation in Gendry.

To Ronnet’s right is another man who's about the same age, just as tall but lanky instead of husky. He looks bored. On Ronnet’s left is a woman with the same red hair but a duller shade, her expression pinched. Behind them are several members of the house, all silently evaluating his retinue. Except for one younger man in the back, who has fire-red hair and seems like he wants to spit fire.

Gendry takes a breath, and like he’s practiced, swings off the side of Rusty Horse. Arya does the same next to him, although her movements are far more graceful. Ronard takes the reins of their horses as soon as they dismount, leading the animals away. 

“Ser Ronnet,” Gendry greets. 

“Lord Baratheon,” he returns, bowing. When he straightens, his eyes flicker again to Arya. “My Lady.”

There’s a long pause in which Ronnet looks at Arya expectantly. Whatever he wants her to do, she doesn’t do it, and Ronnet’s lips twitch. Then he clears his throat.

“My brother, Raymund. My sister, Alynne.” They bow and curtsy respectively, both movements stiff and reluctant.

Ronnet’s chest puffs out. “Welcome to Griffin’s Roost, my Lord. What's ours is yours.”

Gendry doesn't believe him for a second. 

But then the gates close, and there's nowhere else to go but forward.


	4. ch. 26 greenstone

“That island’s ugly.”

Davos shakes his head, but it does nothing to hide his amusement. “Not once you get closer.”

“Nothing that’s ugly gets better when you’re closer to it.”

“Come on, then. Might as well get this all out of your system before we dock,” Davos says under his breath.

Now that he has permission to do it, it’s not as enjoyable. Gendry leans forward on the railing, watching the island slowly approach and finding more ways to hate it. There’s  _more crags,_ for starters. Crags. On an island. An island of crags.

He hears shouts behind him and turns. Bruno’s started some kind of game involving a lot of kicking and a ball behind him, playing with the deckhands, a disgruntled Ronald, Cory, Arya, and, shockingly, Brienne. Bruno called it socks, since it was all played with feet.

“Can we just skip this one?” Gendry mutters. And, maybe a little manipulative: “I know you want to get back home.”

Davos arches a brow. “The Estermonts were your grandmother’s people-”

“Didn’t know her.”

“-and are one of the principle Houses sworn to you.” He watches him carefully. “After the Conningtons, you can’t afford to upset them as well.”

Gendry faces the water with a frown. “The Wyldes like me.”

“Aye, and that’s good. But the Wyldes are barely 400 at arms, and those arms are spread out all among the woods and disorganized.” Davos lets that settle. “The Estermonts are nearly 3000 bannermen.” 

“ _Fine_ ,” Gendry concedes after a long pause. Maybe that’s more.

There's the sound of hollow footsteps on the deck and Davos and Gendry both turn. Margrat pays them no mind, watching the island and looking how Gendry feels.

Davos gives a small smile at her arrival. "Visit Greenstone often, Lady Margrat?"

"When coerced."

Gendry and her sigh and cross their arms at the same time. Davos looks between them, troubled.

\--

Greenstone is...green. Like Rain House, moss seems to be on all the buildings. The beach is littered with strange, glassy-pale rocks. On impulse, he bends to pick up a handful. They feel almost soft, catching light on his palm.

"Sea glass," Davos informs him.

He puts it in a pocket, not sure why.

Gendry helps unload the horses with the rest of his people. And he gives Nymeria two pats on the head whenever he passes her. On the third time, she concedes to getting affection and slobbers all over his arm.

"There's people coming," Arya says as they both set down saddlebags that need to be refilled.

Gendry looks to the narrow, steep path that goes up from the docks to the castle, the steps made of uneven rock. Gendry's starting to believe roads just don't exist anywhere but Storm's End. 

There's a short trail of people, all men in various shades of green or light blue clothing. And Gendry groans because only nobles bother with matching outfits.

"What's wrong?" Arya asks.

Gendry shakes his head. "They're going to talk about Robert the whole time we're here."

"You don't know that-"

A deep, baritone voice is suddenly in his ear. "By the Seven you're Robert's spitting image!"

And before Gendry even knows who the newcomer is, he's turned around and trapped in a hug so tight he hears his back pop a few times. He glares over the man's shoulder at his wife--a clear  _I told you._

\--

The one who held him against his will is Lomas Estermont, his great-uncle. Then there's a bunch of names he forgets almost immediately. They don't look like how he thought they would--all sandy-brown hair and light eyes. 

When he introduces Arya they all stare at her. Then him. And Gendry's immediately defensive. 

"What?" He demands.

One of the men steps forward. He's got a longer beard that's triangle-shaped and thick eyebrows. His hair's the same color as Rusty Horse. His hat is fancy--velvet or something.

"Welcome, Gendry. Arya." He then looks past them and laughs--an abrasive noise that has Gendry wanting to cover his ears. "Davos! You old pirate!"

"Andrew," Davos says, stepping forward and clapping his hand on Andrew's shoulder. "You look well."

"You look exactly the same."

"My younger self is offended."

Gendry watches them, not sure how to feel about the exchange. Davos never mentioned having a friend here.

Lomas interjects, "Perhaps you'd like to introduce your companions, Gendry?"

 _No._ "That's Brienne."

"My Lords."

"Ah! Selwyn's girl. How is the badger?"

Brienne considers. "In good health."

Gendry points a thumb over to where the horses are being watered. "That's the Hound-"

"Sandor," Arya corrects.

One of the younger men's eyebrows raise. "Clegane?"

"Yes." Arya steps aside. "My squire, Ronald Storm."

Ronald gives the shittiest bow Gendry's ever seen. And Gendry’s are pretty shitty. "My Lords."

An older man next to Lomas gives Ronald a slow once-over. "Connington's bastard."

"Arya's squire," Gendry corrects tightly.

He sees Ronald turn to him in surprise, but Gendry doesn't look back at him. It's not about  _Ronald._

"Hmph." Is all the old ass says. Maybe later he'll bray like a donkey.

Andrew grins in recognition as three more join their party. "Bruno, how on earth did you end up here again?

Bruno grins, thumbs tucked into his shield straps. "Miss me, Ser Andrew?"

"Aye, got some heavy things that could use lifting." Andrew gives a gentler smile. "Lady Margrat, it's well to see you also."

She nods in that curt, neutral way of hers, but then a man pushes forward and she starts emanating hostility.

"Lady Margrat," the youngest of the men whispers dreamily. He reaches for her hand. She glares at him the same way she did at the seaweed that accidentally got stuck on her trunk.

"Alyn."

"I've been thinking of you since the feast at Mistwood."

She still doesn't offer her hand. "Fine."

Gendry snorts.

Cory's eyes scan the accumulated men, then her shoulders slump. Unimpressed, she goes back to picking at her hair.

"Come!" Lomas proclaims cheerfully. "Let's some ale and hear of your travels!"

Gendry and Arya catch each other’s eyes. They had agreed not to tell anyone of the sellswords, something they had relayed to their traveling companions. Now, the question was whether they would all be able to keep their mouths shut.

\--

The first person Gendry’s introduced to is Eldon Estermont, Lomas’ brother and the current Lord of Greenstone.

He’s a cantankerous old fuck who smells like sea brine.

Eldon might’ve been tall once, but at over 70 years old, his height has transformed into a stoop and hunched back. His eyes are bushy like Andrew’s, and if his hair wasn’t pure white, Gendry would assume it was probably the same light brown as everyone else’s. He assesses Gendry like he’s a horse with his glassy-green eyes.

“You’re tall, aren’t you boy?”

The way he asks reminds him too much of Flea Bottom. When random people would value him for being tall or strong or whatever else they could use him for. “Can’t say I’ve been trying too hard at it.”

Eldon sniffs, and Gendry looks from him to Lomas, whose red cheeks and still-rusty hair and beard make him think of a jolly version of the Father in the Seven. If it weren’t for the similar eyes, he wouldn’t put them together as siblings.

“And a Stark girl,” Eldon says, sending Arya the same narrowed stare.

“Arya,” she corrects coolly. 

“Are you going to be as much trouble as the last one?”

“Why don’t we have some ale, uncle?” Andrew cuts in, already pulling out a chair. Eldon grunts, but follows his instruction. 

As soon as he sits, Lomas follows, patting a chair next to him. When he doesn’t break eye contact from Gendry, he scowls, but sits in it. 

The second person he’s introduced to is Eldon’s wife, Sylva, who’s got to be at least half her husband’s age. She doesn’t say much, just keeps a glare trained on her plate and a wine glass full. He’s then reintroduced to Aemon Estermont, the braying donkey and Eldon’s heir. 

Alyn is Aemon’s son, who’s been making cow eyes at Margrat since she’s arrived. He pulls out a chair for her, and then deeply scowls when Bruno obliviously takes it and starts asking Alyn about the latest tourney he attended. Margrat smirks, sitting next to Cory, Ronald, and Brienne toward the end of the table. The Hound, unsurprisingly, decided not to show. 

Andrew’s attention is at the end of the table for a moment, before he turns to Gendry and smiles. Again. He  _doesn’t stop._ “You’ve been to see the Conningtons?”

“Pricks,” Eldon grunts.

Gendry can’t help but agree. “Brienne took out three of Ronnet’s teeth.”

Andrew’s eyes go a little wide, but Eldon just starts guzzling ale. “Figures she’d have more between her legs than Ronnet-”

“ _Uncle,_ ” Andrew cuts off, turning to Brienne. “Apologies. My uncle is tired from…”

“I’m not tired.”

Lomas starts laughing.

This is going to be a long fucking supper.

\--

Gendry hoped that eating would be the end of it, that they’d be shown to their rooms and they could all fuck off for a bit. But apparently that wasn’t the Estermont way. Instead, they’re gathered around to share  _stories._ Andrew smokes a pipe, Eldon drinks until he snores himself intermittently awake, and Lomas acts like he’s actually happy Gendry’s here. Which he doesn’t trust.

“The first time your father was here,” Lomas says with a laugh. “He dropped his pants and pissed right into the ocean! Right in front of our father, who wasn’t the fun-loving sort by a mile. Cassana was ready to pitch him into it-”

Gendry doesn’t want to hear about how Robert was a rascal or a troublemaker or how much Cassana Estermont loved him. So he sulks, half-paying attention to the words that are being exchanged over his head. It’s like he’s not even there, just a stand-in for whatever memories these people have of Robert or his brothers. Something to talk  _at._

Lomas lays on the floor in the sitting room, weight propped up on his elbows. “This was a love match, then?”

When Arya answers, Gendry’s thoughts land back in the room. “Yes.”

Lomas points at Gendry, and he steels himself for  _yet another_ fucking comparison to Robert and Lyanna. “Your grandparents married for love.” Lomas gives a sad smile, staring out at something. "I don't think I would've been able to part with my dear sister otherwise."

"What was she like?' Arya asks.

"Stubborn as a mule," Lomas says with a laugh. "Which I supposed made her patient--if only so she could wait out the people she disagreed with. Always running around barefoot." His words go soft. So soft Gendry barely hears it. "Loved the ocean."

He knows how Robert’s parents died from Davos and Podrick’s lessons. That they'd been sailing back from Volantis when their ship sank in Shipbreaker Bay. That they'd almost been home, and their sons had seen it all happen. 

"Uncle Steffon adored her," Andrew cuts in when he sees his father go somber. "Held a tourney for her in Storm's End at her request. She liked watching people being knocked off their horses during the tilts."

That made sense. The only good part of a tourney was the nobles falling on their asses for coin they didn’t need.

A particularly loud snore tears through the room. 

“Ah,” Lomas says with a wink. “Perhaps we should get my brother to bed?”

“I’m not tired,” Eldon grumbles, before his head lolls back again.

Andrew catches Gendry’s eye. “A hand if you would, cousin?”

He’s not his cousin. But he does want the old man locked up in a room as soon as possible. So he stands and lifts the miserable fuck over one of his shoulders, while Andrew takes the other.

“We’re-” a grunt as they haul the fossil over some stairs. Fuck, of course there’s stairs. “-happy,” another grunt, “-to have one of Cassana’s grandchildren here.”

It doesn’t take Gendry near as much effort to life the sack of bones, so his response clear and uninterrupted by heavy breathing or strain. “Guess you better go find one.”

The long pause tells Gendry he’s fucked up. And he doesn’t regret the words, but he wishes he hadn’t said them out loud. Gendry can almost hear Davos’ disapproving beard stroke.

“Ah,” Andrew says after a moment. 

They dump Eldon in his quarters, then Andrew gives an awkward half-bow before he wishes Gendry a good night.

Gendry watches him leave, wishing he had at least said the mean thing to Aemon, who he’s decided deserves mean things.

\--

Arya wakes Gendry before the sun’s fully risen, and not in a fun way.

“Get up and let’s work on your shoulder.”

“In a fun way?”

“Fun for me.”

“Damn.”

An hour later, he’s down to his trousers and sweat coats his entire body. Gendry’s chest moves in shallow breaths. His right side is screaming at him for having to pull the weight of the left, his fingers numb from keeping a tight grip on the axe. 

“You’re getting better,” Arya says with a cool nod of her head. Her linen shirt’s bunched at the elbows, her pants rolled up to the knee. After spending so much time in rainy woods, the direct sun that hits the beaches of Greenstone is almost sweltering. “You should start working your left side more.” 

“Cory told me to take it easy for the first two months.”

“Easy doesn’t mean not at all.”

Gendry rolls his eyes. “Forgive me, milday, for not healing fast enough to your highborn liking.”

She grins. He wants to stay annoyed, but eventually he finds himself grinning back.

Then Bruno had to go and ruin it. One moment, Gendry’s just standing there. The next, his good arm’s getting pulled on and he’s being dragged down to the beach. 

“What the  _fuck_ Bruno?”

“Turtles are out! Time to swim!” 

Gendry’s heart stops. “I don’t-”

“I’ll teach you,” Arya promises, her arm similarly held by Cory who is shedding her clothes at an alarming speed.

Gendry shrugs Bruno’s grip off of him. “I’ve got...Lord things, to do.”

“Oh. Davos said you didn’t,” Bruno says, looking sad.

Arya sends Gendry a mocking look. “You’d rather be in the castle? Really?”

He frowns. “You’re staying here?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck. Fine.”

\--

Gendry’s kind of glad he brought the Wyldes along, if for no other reason then they clearly scandalize the people around them. Bruno and Cory unabashedly strip to their smallclothes before diving in, letting Greenstone see...a lot. Margrat joins them, forgoing swimming for a warm rock to sit on. She’s a lot like a mean cat.

“I don’t want to do this,” he grumbles to Arya as he kicks off his boots.

“You live on a beach. You should learn to swim.” Gendry notices that Arya keeps her full shirt on as they walk to the water, and it makes him frown a bit when he realizes why. 

“You don’t even know what’s down here,” he grumbles. 

“Turtles. Maybe sharks.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

They stay apart from the Wylde siblings, Bruno deciding to throw Cory into the ocean and Cory deciding to retaliate by splashing salt water into his eyes. Once Gendry’s about shin-deep in water, Arya stops and faces him.

“Comfortable?”

“With what?”

“The water.”

He’s pointedly not looking at it. He doesn’t want to see turtles or sharks or dolphins, even though he still thinks the last one’s made up. “It’s fine.”

“Okay, sit in it.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how the sea works.”

“Just do it.” 

He does. And Arya makes him lay back and practice kicking which is probably the stupidest shit he’s ever done. When Bruno comes over to encourage him, Gendry’s even further convinced that he hates swimming and the ocean and anything Bruno likes.

About an hour later, Gendry’s pissed off because he’s failed at floating on his back for the fourth or fifth time. Arya’s looking at the shoreline, and so Gendry’s eyes follow her. There, he sees Andrew having what seems like an amiable conversation with Margrat, but the woman to his side is new. Whoever she is, she’s about Andrew’s age, short, and...top-heavy.

“Guess I need to go talk to this one, too,” he mutters under his breath. And maybe, yeah, he does feel a little bad about last night. Not much, though. Gendry looks at Arya. “You want to keep swimming?”

She tears her gaze away. “If you want.”

Gendry nods. “I’ll be right back, then.”

Before Arya can protest or follow after him, Gendry steps out of the water and goes to say...something, to Andrew. Water’s dripping down his face, so he runs his hand up to clear it. He hates how his trousers are now water-logged and clinging to his skin. The others turn at his approach, and Margrat looks vaguely annoyed for some reason. Gendry ignores her and the other woman to address Andrew. 

He clears his throat. “I meant what I said last night. But I didn’t have to be a dick about it.”

Andrew takes in his sincere apology. Then pats Gendry on the shoulder--the sting Gendry feels letting him know he’s been sunburned. “I understand. We should’ve been more understanding.”

Gendry doesn’t know what to do with someone  _nice,_ so he settles on just crossing his arms and waiting for Andrew to do something.

“Gendry, this is my sister Beatrice,” Andrew says after it’s clear that Gendry’s not going to talk.

He turns in time to see Beatrice’s stare dart up guiltily. What was she looking at? “Please, call me Bea.” She extends a hand.

Gendry shakes it quickly. He’s probably not going to remember her name one way or another. 

“Rough hands,” she comments in a light voice.

Gendry’s brows knit together. 

Beatrice smiles. “I was close to your father.”

Good, now he knows he doesn’t have to like her. It seems like Beatrice is waiting for some kind of response on his end, but Gendry doesn’t have any that he’d care to give. She leans forward and Gendry looks away with his ears burning a little red. She was about to...spill. 

“And you do look  _just_ like him the last time he came to Greenstone. Different hair, of course.” Beatrice gives a little hum. “Have you thought of growing it out?”

“No.” 

Andrew clears his throat. “Gendry, we were thinking of having a bonfire on the beach tonight. Would you and Arya like to attend?” 

No. “Who else is going?”

Robert’s cousin looks a little thrown by the question. “Ah, Davos suggested the idea.” He turns to Margrat, and there’s something weird about how he asks her versus how he asked Gendry. “Would you and your siblings be interested?”

“They both like anything shiny,” Margrat says with a shrug of her shoulders. 

“Oh you  _have_ to come. I know so little about you!” Beatrice exclaims.

Gendry frowns. “You know nothing about me.”

She gives that hum again that he doesn’t like. “All the more reason to converse, isn’t it?” She tilts her head and he’s reminded of the women at King’s Landing. “Plus I’d love to meet your wife.”

“She’s right here,” Arya says, walking up to the group and standing between Gendry and the woman. She gives Beatrice a small nod. “I’m Arya.”

Beatrice gives a small curtsy. “We’re honored to have the Princess of the Six Kingdoms at Greenstone.”

“...thanks.” Arya glances at Gendry and he’s a little thrown by how impatient she seems. “I need your help with something.”

“What?”

“Something. Let’s go.” She gives a quick nod of dismissal to those gathered, and before Gendry knows what’s happening she’s got him by the wrist and they’re moving toward the training grounds.

“You okay?” He asks, confused.

“Fine,” Arya says shortly. “And put a shirt on.”

\--

Whatever caused Arya’s strange mood, it’s gone by the time they go back to the beach. It’s held on the northern side of the island, and Gendry’s amazed to discover it’s not as ugly as the rest of it. Instead of rocks and sea glass, there’s soft, white sands and tall grass that sways in the wind. In the center of a long stretch of sand, he sees a large fire starting to go up.

“Not so ugly now, is it?” Davos asks, and Gendry hates how he’s right all the time.

“It’s not bad.” 

“And the Estermonts? Your thoughts there?”

“They talk too much.” Well. “Andrew seems alright.”

“Aye, he’s a good lad. Loyal to the Baratheons.”

“Doesn’t mean much. Half of them were bad.”

Davos sends him a long look. Gendry can tell he wants to say something stronger, but he tempers it. “Half...doing alright by Great Houses standards then, aren’t we?”

“Hmph.” 

“Be the better half,” Davos continues. “And give your kin a chance.”

His kin that night are just Lomas, Andrew, Alyn, Beatrice, and a new woman he’s never met. She introduces herself as Hilde, says it’s nice to see him again, and Gendry just nods and doesn’t say anything until she walks away.

Gendry’s never really been to a beach before. The shores at Storm’s End were too rough for something like this, and trying to find the shoreline at King’s Landing usually meant finding a corpse or two floating by it (he’d know, he put one there that one time). But it’s not all that different than when they have celebrations in the village--a band starts playing, people pass out wine or ale, some are dancing. Gendry finds a place next to Arya on the sands and glares at the musicians with such mistrust none of them meet his eyes.

Arya looks nice. Her hair’s all down and she’s wearing a cleaner version of what she wore training this morning. He brushes her hair aside and kisses the back of her neck lightly. 

“Think they’ll leave us alone?” He mumbles half-heartedly against her skin.

“No,” Arya says in resignation. “I’ve been asked four times if I know I look like my aunt.”

“Getting sick of that happening.”

“Me too.” She glances at him, wry amusement on her face but he sees how tired she looks under it. “Don’t start a war if I end up in Dorne.”

He’s tired, too. “Don’t get kidnapped by anyone and I won’t.” 

Arya snorts, picking at a thread in the hem of her shirt. “If anyone’s in danger of getting kidnapped, it’s you.”

His lips part as he thinks. “What you mean?”

“You don’t know?” Arya asks, a little lost.

“Why would I ask if I knew?”

“Daenerys was thinking of marrying you, you stupid bull.”

Gendry stares at her, uncomprehending. “But she’s married.” Gently, to remind her: “To Jon.”

“She was thinking of marrying you, too.”

“Don’t be stupid. You can’t get married twice.”

“What do you think the three-headed dragon means?”

“I don’t know? Three dragons?”

Arya draws her knees to her chest, presses her forehead against them, and  _huffs._

Gendry continues to frown so hard his forehead hurts. “She doesn’t even like me.”

“She likes the Stormlands well enough.”

Gendry’s forehead scrunches further. “Jon wouldn’t’ve liked that.” 

“No shit.”

Wait. “Is that why you told me to marry you?” 

“Not  _just_ that.”

“Arya, what the fuck?”

Bruno plops down on the ground next to him, hard enough to spray sand. “How’d your swimming go?”

“I’m trying to talk to my wife right now,” Gendry says testily. 

“Oh. Okay. Hi Arya.”

“Hi Bruno.”

“Alyn’s really excited to play socks with us. You want to join in later?”

“Sure Bruno.”

Thankfully, he leaves as fast as he came, but Gendry’s feeling no less agitated. “You married me to cock block Daenerys Targaryen?”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“It’s true like that.”

She rolls her eyes. “I should’ve just let her marry you then?”

“No!”

“Then what’s the problem?” 

“I don’t fucking know. Maybe you could've  _told me_ at some point?”

“It doesn't matter anymore!”

He glares at her. Arya glares right back.

“Ah, young love.” The statement is punctuated by a hiccup. 

Gendry’s gaze flickers up and lands somewhere that immediately has his eyes going  _more up._

Beatrice smiles at them, swaying slightly and her cheeks already stained pink. The sun’s not even gone yet. “Don’t worry,” she says with a little wink. “Robert and his wife were much the same.”

The statement feels like someone made him eat lead. And Gendry’s rearing up to tell her to fuck right off when Arya suddenly stands. 

“Where you going?” He asks hotly.

“I’m going to go play socks,” she says back, just as hotly. Arya glances at Beatrice and bald disgust is on her face before she crosses over to where Bruno is physically dragging Alyn into a game.

He gets up to go after her, but Beatrice blocks him. She has to reach up to pat his cheek, which doesn’t do anything to make the action less condescending. 

“It’s so strange seeing you here. Like you’ve walked right out of the past, and what  _wonderful_ memories they are-”

“My Lady Estermont,” and Gendry almost sags in relief when Davos walks up. “You seem in good spirits.”

She slowly turns away from Gendry, her hand dropping from his cheek to stare at Davos. “Do I know you?”

“Ah, met but the once. You...left quite the impression.” Discreetly, Davos nods to the side.

Gendry, seeing the opening, gives him a quick nod of thanks before he retreats as fast as he can. He makes his way to the game, and sees Cory sitting on the sidelines watching. Not sure what else to do, he sits next to her.

“How’s your shoulder?” She asks, tossing her braid over her shoulder. 

“Better,” he says honestly. It’s still stiff, and the muscles get tired easily, but the screaming pain is starting to fade for more of a throbbing one. 

“That’s nice.” Cory waits a few minutes before she sends him a side glare. “Brienne said no.  _None_ of the men here are the least bit attractive. I’m disappointed in this progress so far, Gendry.”

He balks. “Why’s that my problem?”

“Father said you were out to find me a husband. Or a rich woman to keep me.” Cory gestures into the empty air. “Where are they?”

“That’s  _not_ -” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re not here to do that.”

She pouts and cradles her chin in her hands. “Even  _Margrat_ has someone interested in her.”

Gendry looks over to the game. Arya knocks Alyn straight into the dirt. Gendry’s still annoyed, but he smiles at it. “She doesn’t seem to like him, though.”

Cory leans back, looking at him like he’s not too bright. “Are you joking? She said he  _wasn’t bad._ ”

“Alyn?”

“Ew, no. Andrew.”

What? “But he’s old.”

“Not that old.”

Gendry frowns, and tries to find either of them around the party. He can’t, so he supposes that says something. 

“They’re done,” Cory points out. Then, louder. “I want next game!”

Gendry watches as Alyn staggers away from Bruno and Arya, clutching his side and swearing under his breath. Arya comes after him, a little hesitant as she approaches Gendry. He watches her, waiting. 

“I should have told you,” she concedes. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “But you’re right, it doesn’t matter.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Arya steps forward, wrapping her arms around his waist and Gendry rests his chin on the top of her head. 

\--

Over the next few days of their visit, things go relatively smoothly. He and Arya discreetly look into the Estermont coffers, which match up with their books and he’s honestly a little relieved. During the day they practice and he reluctantly tries to keep learning how to swim. One afternoon Andrew joins them, and he’s a way better teacher than Arya--something that makes her scowl when he says it.

It doesn’t take Gendry long to realize that the only Estermonts worth talking to are Lomas--whose biggest offense is just that he wants to talk about his dead sister too much--and Andrew. Eldon, Aemon, and Alyn seem to be a lineage of sour fucks, and Beatrice makes him uneasy every time she seeks him out.

Which is often. Anytime they’re in a room together, she’s got a story about Robert. Or a reason to touch his arm. Or, worse, she touches his arm while talking about Robert.

It comes to a head a few nights before they’re set to leave. Gendry’s in the stables, making sure Rusty Horse is doing fine, when he hears a hiccup behind him. He sends Rusty Horse a frustrated look, then turns.

“Yeah?”

Beatrice stumbles a little in her step. “Out here all alone?”

Gendry just watches her with narrowed eyes. “Not anymore,” he says unhappily.

“You and y-your wife have another row?”

What the fuck? “What are you on about?”

“You don’t have to lie to me. Robert was the same way with the Queen. With all his women.” 

He’s had it with her. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re saying.”

“I know better than anyone!” And it’s at the outburst that Gendry realizes there’s something sad about her. Sad and fucked up. “Robert and I were lovers, you know.”

He grinds his teeth. “Wouldn’tve guessed.”

“ _Real_ ones not. Not whatever it was he had with everyone else.” 

He doubts Beatrice meant more to Robert than any of his others.  _None_ of them could have meant much to him. His fists clench.  

She stumbles forward, the firelight from the torches casting harsh glares on her features. “You look so much like him…” 

She reaches for his shirt. Fed up, Gendry swats her hand away. “I don’t give a shit.”

Instead of leaving like a sensible person, Beatrice lets out a laugh. “You don’t have to put on an act. No one’s here but me and you-”

“It’s not an act, and I think you should go inside now.”

“We could have some fun. She wouldn’t have to know.”

He wants to be sick at those words. Not just because they’re fucking insulting, but because he’s sure Robert said them to  _her_ at some point. That Beatrice looks at him and sees that piece of shit. That she thinks he’d  _be like him._

“Stay the fuck away from me,” he snarls, shoving past her and out into the open air where he hopes he can breathe a bit more.

\--

The next morning he’s up before her, for once. Gendry stares down, rubbing his thumb slowly over her shoulder and watching her chest rise and fall, not ready to wake up yet. She must feel his stare or sense a change in his breathing, because her eyes slowly open and she’s watching him in curiosity. 

“What’s wrong?”

He needs her to know. More importantly, he needs to say it. “I’m never going outside this bed. That’s it for me.” Gendry thinks of the night in the stables and feels angry all over again. “I’m not going around to father bastards or treat you like shit-”

“Gendry,” Arya interrupts. “Did something happen?”

“I hate it here,” he finally confesses. “They keep talking about him. Either he was Cassana’s little son or some noble fucking warrior or. Or fuck, I don’t know. But no one ever talks about how he couldn’t keep his cock in his pants, how he fucked the entire Seven Kingdoms, or how he went and got himself killed over a gods-damned pig.” 

Gendry bites down on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t even know…” Fuck, he hates all of this. But now that it’s started it isn’t stopping. “I don’t even know if my mum  _wanted_ him. She wasn’t a whore, wasn’t some fancy lady who might’ve been able to tell him no without being scared of it.” He sits up, hand on top of his head. On top of the short hair he keeps short for a reason. “And now I’m here on this stupid, ugly island and no one can shut up about how much I look like him.” 

He hears Arya shift on the bed, then feels her legs on the inside of his as she kneels in front of him.

“You look like you,” she says in that certain, highborn way of hers. He’s instantly annoyed by it, which he recognizes is the point. “What was your mother’s name?”

It shames him that he has to think about it. “Lynne.”

“What do you remember about her?”

Gendry frowns. Not just because the answer to the question isn’t much, but because he remembers who last asked him. Gendry doesn’t remember Ned Stark all that well, just that he’s heard Jon and Arya carry his looks. Grey eyes, brown hair. Arya’s got nothing of her mother, either. Does it ever bother her like it bothers him?

“She had yellow hair and liked to sing.” And that’s all he has. The Estermonts have countless stories of their Cassana and Robert and the others, but Gendry’s only got the two things. It infuriates him to know he has more of Robert than he does of his mum. He’s in fucking everything Gendry has--his name, his home, even his relationship with Arya has ghosts hanging over it. 

“My mother liked to sing, too,” Arya says contemplatively, cutting through his thoughts. “But it’s hard to remember which ones.”

Gendry never knew which ones. Not even knew the tune. He works his jaw. Then stops when he feels Arya’s fingers slide along it.

“I met Robert,” she says. “When I was a girl. He came to Winterfell.”

He nods. He knows about this from Jon.  _You’re leaner, you’re shorter._

“I barely remember him,” she confesses. “Even though I traveled with him and stayed at the Red Keep. He was loud. I didn’t like him because of what he let happen to Lady. But I don’t feel anything. I don’t think of him when I think of you. He isn’t real.” Arya tilts his chin up. “Your mother’s real. You remember her because you  _want_ to.”

“Don’t remember much,” he says, bitter.

“It’s more than what you have of Robert,” Arya says levelly. “Names….even faces, those can be discarded. What you want to hold onto is what survives when nothing else does.”

Gendry looks at her. He doesn’t fully understand her meaning--it’s like he’s missing a piece of a story--but the sentiment is clear enough. And he still fucking hates him, but it’s back to the simmer he’s kept it at for most of his life. “...Are you saying fuck Robert?”

Her lips flicker into a little smile. “And Lyanna. We’re not either of them, and we’re not carrying on their stories.”

Gendry closes his eyes when Arya kisses him. “Good.”

\--

The evening before they’re set to leave, Andrew asks if he can talk to him. Gendry reluctantly agrees, and that’s how he finds himself outside of a small cove, back to where the sand is soft. Andrew finds a spot to sit silently, and Gendry follows suit.

As the sun drops beneath the horizon, it paints the ocean’s surface in broken oranges and pinks. The wind is warm and gentle, not at all like it is at Storm’s End. He sees little black spots break up the water and knows he’s finally seen the turtles Bruno won’t shut up about. 

Whenever Andrew smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkle up and his cheeks show deep dimples. His hand plucks a blade of beach grass and twirls it lazily. And it’s strange. Gendry’s used to the docks of King’s Landing, hot and loud and smelling of shit and sweat and sex. He knows the beaches of Shipbreaker Bay, covered in rocks and grey-washed driftwood. But this--soft, white sand and easy tides--this is all new and foreign to him. 

“Robert liked it here, too,” Andrew observes.

And just like that, the moment’s fucked for Gendry. He scowls, fingers fisting into the sand. “I don’t care what Robert liked.”

Andrew surprises him. “You shouldn’t. He was careless and a drunk. Towards the end I saw little of the cousin I grew up with and loved.” His light brown eyes seek Gendry’s. “I’m sorry for him. I’m sorry for not knowing you. Or your siblings. Now they’re gone.” His shoulders slump. “You were right when you said you weren’t Cassana’s grandson--we didn’t give you the opportunity to be.” 

Gendry stares straight ahead at the turtles, unblinking.

“It’s strange, having you here with Arya. Like another way things could have gone. Because despite Robert’s flaws--and he had many--he did love her,” Andrew says quietly. “Maybe not forever. But he believed in it.”

Gendry’s sick of being compared to dead folk. “We’re not them. And I’m not Robert.”

“You’re not.” He leans back in the sand, eyes trained on the horizon. “I hope you’re happier.”

 _Happier_. Gendry lets the world roll around in his mind. “Yeah. I am.”

Andrew nods. “I thought so. I know you don’t see us as your family, and that’s your right. But I’d like to get to know you better, if you’d be open to it.”

“How’s that?”

“Ravens, maybe? Or visits between Greenstone and Storm’s End.” Andrew shrugs. “It’d be good, I think, to be in each other’s lives. Hopefully as friends.”

Gendry watches the turtles as they swim.

“I’ll give it a try.”

\--

Eldon doesn’t see them off at the docks, instead grumbling out to Gendry that he “better last longer than the other ones,” which he thinks is a compliment. He says goodbye curtly to Aemon and Alyn, and a little warmer to Lomas, who wraps him up again in one of his stupid bear hugs. Beatrice is thankfully absent.

Andrew’s eyes crinkle in the corners as he says his goodbyes. “Send my love to Marya.”

“Only if that’s all you’re sending,” Davos says with a chuckle as they clasp arms. 

Andrew’s attention moves to Margrat. Now that Gendry knows apparently what Cory knows, he eyes them a little more carefully. Maybe he can leave her here. “Lady Margrat.”

“Ser Andrew.”

“Have good sail.” Andrew closes his eyes. 

Margrat arches a brow. “Have good beach.”

She still offers him her hand to kiss before she walks back onto the ship. Alyn lets out a strangled noise before making a quick exit.

“Well met,” Andrew says to him and Arya when they’re the last two. “Let our next meeting be soon.”

Gendry looks around Greenstone. “Maybe at Storm’s End.”

Andrew laughs before he pulls him into a hug that Gendry reluctantly returns.

\--

They unfurl the sail, and Gendry watches Davos as he goes to the side of the ship. “Ready to go?” He chances.

Davos closes his eyes, letting the spray and smell of the sea wash over him. “Too much time away, I think.” He laughs a little. “Or maybe I’m just getting sentimental in my age. But aye.” He braces his hands on the railing. “Let’s head home.”

They set the course for Cape's Keel.


End file.
